"it's your road and yours alone. Others may walk it with you, but no one can walk it for you." rumi

Just another traveler on life’s highway hanging out in the slow lane. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. Beyond the horizon is rest calling my name. Green pastures, still waters, my cup is overflowing.

“I’m sorry, we are out of wine. Would you like a cup of water or perhaps fermented goat’s milk?”

“Noooooooooooooooo.” Undoubtedly, the scream echoed through the hills and valleys of Galilee as the feast master in charge of the wine supply realized his calculations for the wedding’s needs were misjudged. His reputation throughout Israel would be ruined. Nobody would hire him to cater their wedding after this fiasco at Cana.

And then Jesus, having been summoned by his mother, saved the day by turning six stone pots each filled with 20 to 30 gallons of water into vessels filled with wine. When the wine was tested by the ruler of the wedding feast he went to the bridegroom saying, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.” (John 2:10 NIV)

The books of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John reveal to us the miracles performed by Jesus as recorded in the ancient manuscripts. Turning water into wine was the first miracle of Jesus’ ministry occurring three days after Nathaniel became a follower. John 2:11 tells us that this “was the first of the signs through which he revealed his glory; and his disciples believed him.”

“He did whaaat?” Had I lived then and one of my neighbors who attended that wedding at Cana told me about some yahoo preacher man turning about 150 gallons of water into wine, I am certain my doubting Thomas nature would have replied, “You’re out of your mind. What were you smoking up there at Cana?”

Many people today say they don’t believe in miracles. They also deny Jesus, God, and eternity. Years ago I was one of those people. I wanted to be an atheist, tried to be an agnostic and failed miserably at both. If God did not exist why was I on my knees in a drunken stupor begging God to heal me? If Jesus was just a myth like Santa Claus why did I talk to him like a friend when I wanted to end my life?

Yes I believed, but I refused to accept my miracle. It was right there in front of me for years , but I was not done with the pain and self-loathing. I wanted to beat up on myself for a while longer. It gave me satisfaction to be a victim. The floor of my bottom had a trap door that I wanted to explore. Let’s kick me around and refuse my miracle a little bit longer.

But, you see, the God which I rejected did not give up. Every night on my knees in a drunken stupor, God held my hand listening to me, comforting me, showing me the way to accept grace and mercy. I tearfully forgave myself and accepted life, eternal life. Miracles still happen today. I claimed mine. Millions of others like me, addicts and drunks clean and serene, are each and every one the story of a miracle.

“What Jesus did here in Cana of Galilee was the first of the signs through which he revealed his glory; and his disciples believed him.” (John 2:11 NIV)

The ugliness in the world somehow seems much uglier than it did yesterday. The darkness of a government missing its moral compass is darker. The inequalities gripping humanity appear more unequal. What happened to my complacency and my acceptance of this status quo? I did not ask to be made aware. I was happy with a world that accepted me. I was content to just fit in and be unnoticed. Then he came along.

Then he came along and changed my life forever. Minding my own business casting my nets, this preacher man walked by and said to my brother Andrew and me, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.”

Who is this stranger? Does he really believe I am going to leave my nets and my boat and walk away from my wife, my children? What does he want? What does he mean by ‘fishers of men’ and why is my brother abandoning his nets also and turning our boat over onto the beach? Why are we doing this?

Look! There are James and John with their father Zebedee mending nets on their boat. This stranger is calling to them. They, too, are dropping their work to slosh through the water to join us. He says we are going to be his followers, his disciples. We are going to preach at Capernaum and everywhere in Galilee. Preach what? Who is this man who calls himself Jesus? Just yesterday I was content to simply fish and mend my nets, but now he wants us to be fishers of men.

Simon Peter, Andrew, James and John encountered a dilemma on that day nearly two-thousand years ago working their trade on the Sea of Galilee. What would you have done? How about me? My spouse would definitely not understand and my friends would think I’ve had too much to drink. And what about the neighbors? “Yeah,” they would chortle, “Larry just left the mower in the yard, joined Joe and Bobby following some guy who said, ‘Follow me and I will make you fishers of men. He’s bonkers! ‘”

Everyone of us has had our day in the boat just fishing and easing along through life when Jesus appears on the shore beckoning us to follow. It happens unexpectedly, doesn’t it? He says our nets will catch something bigger and better than anything our dreams could imagine.

Jesus said in Matthew 4:19, “Follow me and I will make you fishers of men.”

Just another traveler on life’s highway hanging out in the slow lane. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. Beyond the horizon is rest calling my name. Green pastures, still waters, my cup is overflowing.

There was a time in my life when I thought that one day in the future I should be able to describe and define God. It was an element of my faith walk which led me to believe spiritual maturity could be captured and confined in a treasure box of heavenly secrets and knowledge. When I had attained certitude in all things which previously were questioning and unknowing, I would then be a wise and ‘saved’ man of God.

Didn’t work that way, folks. Today I know less than I did yesterday and there are many more questions than answers. But, there is also comfort in knowing that the unknown is an integral part of the mystery which we call God. The ancient writings of Judaism recorded in the book of Exodus tell us that when Moses had a personal encounter with God emanating from a burning bush, Moses asked, “What shall I say is your name?” and the answer was, “I AM Who I AM.” (Exodus 3:14)

In my mind, that answer always seemed to be such an evasive response to a man as myself who wanted a definitive description or a name to use. Essentially God said to Moses and to me, “You don’t need to get so familiar with me as to think you have unraveled the mystery which I AM.” God, in Exodus 3, is a reassuring presence, not an identifiable entity.

I need to be satisfied with that. That reassuring presence is all I need to know. Maybe Jesus understood that presence in his life’s journey on earth. He referred to God as Father while living a life motivated by spiritual nobility more than absolute knowledge. He shared the essence of his faith in sayings and parables often confusing listeners who were not attuned to God as a spiritually reassuring Presence. If I were to ask, contrary to contemporary theology, what if Jesus was not on earth to establish a divinity demanding worship and adoration upon his death? Rather, what if he lived to present to humanity nothing more than an example of life dedicated to service and humility?

As an American, as a white man, as a Christian I need to be extremely careful what image I impose upon Jesus. I need to eat some humble pie when thinking that I know everything there is to know. I will never fully know the beauty of Jesus or the identity of God because I am still a broken vessel struggling to fathom the depths of God’s presence and Jesus’ soul. All I can do is aspire to a fuller acceptance of and surrender to the universal mystery known as God, my reassuring Presence.

Jesus is attributed with the words of Matthew 7:7 that we should keep on asking, keep on seeking, keep on knocking and we will receive what we are asking and find what we are seeking. The doors in front of us will open. Beyond those doors will be more asking, more seeking and more doors to open. If I should think that I have arrived, that I have the answers, that all the doors have been opened, then I, in my errant theological certitude, shall have strayed from the purpose of my own spiritual quest. Matthew 7:7

Just another traveler on life’s highway hanging out in the slow lane. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. Beyond the horizon is rest calling my name. Green pastures, still waters, my cup is overflowing.

I have seen, in my lifetime, many changes in the roles of men and women within their respective societies. Most changes are good, many more are needed. A male friend of mine, old as the hills just as I am, pontificated about the role of women in the household.

“A woman’s duty is in the house taking care of the husband.”

“Hmmmm,” I replied. “Sounds like old-fashioned chauvinism to me.” He took offense.

Now folks, I am not the most progressive, liberated man on earth, but in my mind that kind of talk went the way of the horse and buggy decades ago. Unfortunately, some members of my gender still adhere to it. Equality for women is a good thing. Equality for everyone is a better thing. Argue with me if you must, but I know I am right.

However, some things from the horse and buggy days by far outshine our society today. I remember, as a young boy, the neighbor’s barn being destroyed by fire. Within weeks that neighbor had a new barn with a new hex sign on its side erected by his community brethren – labor intensive and cost free. In the autumn when butchering of livestock needed to be done, the men of the community traveled from one farm to the next assisting each other until all the community’s members had stocked the larders, smoke houses, and shelves with a bounty of meats. The women also participated by joining their sisters to prepare a dinner table groaning under the weight of meats, vegetables and desserts for the hungry working men. Even the children escaped from school classes to assist whenever possible. Some of our greatest lessons in life were learned during those times of shared communal outreach. They were lessons a class room could never duplicate.

Our community lived as if every person mattered regardless of worldly goods and professional achievement. Each man, woman, and child had a purpose and a unique contribution to the community’s livelihood. None were denigrated because of poverty or social difficulty. When the bounty of the land was brought in during fall harvests, none needed to be concerned if their crops were lacking or their larders were not filled. Neighbors filled whatever the need might have been. It’s was simply the right way to live and we all knew that it was right.

“Harvest Home” at our church was a special Sunday in October when the best of the harvest was presented at the altar for the pastor and his family. In later years, when the pastor was better paid, those offerings were taken to the church-sponsored home for orphans and the destitute. Our community cared about its brothers and sisters just as they were instructed to do in their church upbringing, just as Jesus taught during his ministry on earth. The farmers and teachers and artisans and laborers talked the talk and walked the walk.

Times today seem different, more impersonal. I don’t know my neighbors down the street. I attended a church of my tradition for 2 years and knew some of the congregants by name but none well enough to get together for coffee after the service. Everybody seemed hurried to get home, change clothes and watch the game on cable or head to WalMart to buy a new kitchen gadget. Yes, tithing was important, but that five dollar bill in the plate simply did not hold a candle to the basket of fruit setting at the altar during Harvest Home Sunday. It’s too impersonal. And we don’t build barns anymore.

Just another traveler on life’s highway hanging out in the slow lane. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. Beyond the horizon is rest calling my name. Green pastures, still waters, my cup is overflowing.

Flip Wilson, in his wildly popular variety show from 1970-1974, introduced the character “Geraldine” to his audience. Geraldine will remain forever remembered for her line, “The devil made me do it.”

The devil made me do it. The horned and tailed trouble-maker has been a scapegoat for millions of people over many centuries. That hell-raiser has had numerous names in various civilizations, but the purpose is the same – give humanity an entity to blame for its faults. Rather than assume responsibility for the acts we commit against others, that fellow sitting on our left shoulder whispering in our ears becomes the universal scapegoat.

Tribalism is founded on scapegoating. Whether my tribe is a government, a race, a creed, a social order, a caste system, or a religion, when it agrees on a common foe as the enemy to be feared or despised, discrimination and intolerance are born. But it all starts with me nurturing the fear and distrust which has been indoctrinated into my tribal mindset. I need a thorough “brainwashing.”

How does that happen? My personal answer, although not yet perfected, is to replace those “Geraldine” moments with faith and trust. Replace the scapegoating with inner transformation which uncovers my faults, my defects, and my hatred in need of correction. Stop blaming the devil. I need to grow up into the human being I was designed to be.

“When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But, when I grew up I put away childish things.” 1 Corinthians 13:11

Hey Bubba, just between you and me –

I’m tired of running on just one spark plug. My timing is off and my belts are slipping. And don’t even ask me about my fluid levels. Yeah, this old pile of rust and bolts just wants to retire to the junk yard.

Ever feel that way? I thought a few days ago that a visit to my private fantasy island, Gonstagos, in the Mediterranean would cure my ills. A time of communion with the brothers living in the cliff-side caves would restore and replenish. Nope, nada.

I truly want life to pass by and abandon me to a routine of reading, writing, yoga and meditation. Sure, a meal once in a while would be nice and a slice of apple pie in the evening. Of course you can come to visit – let me check my social calendar. How about the 5th Saturday of next August? Oh sorry, that’s not good. I’m having my annual prostate exam.

Perhaps finally as a septuagenarian I have recognized that I am not normal, never have been. Not shy about social outings, but I don’t seek them. Not a stick-in-the-mud, but I had fun 2 months ago and I’m still recovering. No, I’m not set in my ways, but don’t ever put the carving knife in that drawer again.

They talk about old people becoming reclusive and withdrawn from the world. Heck, I’ve always been that way. I don’t like the world. It’s full of people who don’t agree with my politics, my lifestyle, or my religion and they are unabashed in voicing their differences. Young hoodlums drive by the house with a radio blasting ruining my 2 o’clock nap. Just no respect for seniors. And the stray cats in the neighborhood know I’m a cat lover, so they trot over here to my yard and crap in my petunias. No respect – none at all.

Yeah, just accept that I am a blustery, old codger who loves sitting on the porch shooting spit balls at the stray cats and a middle finger at the noisy hoodlums driving by. I’m Ok with that, you should be too. Don’t try to refine me or reform me. Some old folks are just too tired, too ornery and too worn out to care what others think.

Now, having that squared away, I’m going have a healthy Geritol and vinegar cocktail and a salad of fresh kale. Mmmmm-mmmmm.

Like this:

Just another traveler on life’s highway hanging out in the slow lane. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. Beyond the horizon is rest calling my name. Green pastures, still waters, my cup is overflowing.

Why was Jesus crucified? Depends on whom you believe, doesn’t it? The Christian scholars of theology and religion who believe in the fall of Adam and Eve from God’s grace, who believe our progenitors were expelled from the garden for their sin, who thereby believe that all mankind is saddled with a sinful nature will explain that the violent, ignoble, bloody death of his “only begotten son” was a necessary payment to God to attain God’s forgiveness.

Really? I know I am questioning one of the foundational tenets of modern Christianity, but can we believe that? Prior to the 11th century Christians did acknowledge that payment (ransom) was due, but it was not due to God, rather it needed to be paid to the devil. Then Anselm of Canterbury (c. 1033-1109) wrote a paper WHY DID GOD BECOME HUMAN. In this writing he asserted that yes “a price needed to be paid to restore God’s honor, and it needed to be paid to God the Father.” (1)

With the popularity of this one piece of literature during the 11th century, God was confirmed by the Church not only as a vengeful, condemning, agitator of fire and brimstone, but now a Father who had demanded his only begotten Son’s life. Instead of a loving and compassionate Father, the Christian world embraced a bloodied, broken body on a cross as the price due for communion with their God.

Think about it. The death of Jesus of Nazareth was a historical event. Jesus’ ministry is documented by a multitude of writings by his followers and at least one unbiased historian, Josephus. Jesus was an insurrectionist who dismayed the powers of the Roman Empire and he made himself a thorn in the side of the established Jewish hierarchy. Both wanted him gone.

It is up to each of us to decide what we will believe in our faith walks. But, what about forgiveness? What does forgiving or being forgiven mean to me, to you? When was the last time you handed your neighbor a $20 bill and then asked him to forgive you for mowing down his prized petunias? You may have repaid him for replacement of his flowers, but the money did not buy his forgiveness. Can forgiveness have a price if it’s an act extended and received by one man/woman to another freely from a mindset of love and compassion? Would a loving Father demand payment for his forgiveness through crucifixion of his only begotten Son?

We must be concerned that possibly what is accepted as inerrant theology has somehow strayed off course by way of human fallibility. I refuse to abandon my faith tradition because sometimes what I am told to believe doesn’t make sense to me. If I am led to read the scriptures of our Christianity as examples of sober-living and paths to spiritual recovery, then I must ask questions. I must question the scholars and theologians who have established inerrancy and certitude as hallmarks of their interpretations. My adventure into the mysteries of eternity and God cannot be a trek which ends with definitive answers; rather it has to be a discovery process which only poses more questions.